


Terroir

by NeverwinterThistle



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Daud's Vineyard of Grief and Wallowing, Low Chaos, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverwinterThistle/pseuds/NeverwinterThistle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Terroir</i>:  the assumption that the land from which the grapes are grown imparts a unique quality that is specific to that growing site.<br/>-Jacques Fanet "Great Wine Terroirs"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Terroir

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Martin's fate in a low chaos game. Small warning for brief suicidal thoughts, and also the Vineyard of Guilt is not canon, just a mad thing that happened on Tumblr (but let's face it, there are worse fates).

Daud's never been much of a dreamer. Even after everything he's seen, everything he's _done_ , his interests lie solidly in the factual, the relevant, that which ensures utmost efficiency. He'd be out of his depth in a discussion on astrology, or myth, or any foreign culture irrelevant to his next target. He doesn't lie to himself, he never succumbs to the weakness of daydreams.

He's well aware his grapes are worthless. In monetary terms they are worthless, he amends to himself, because they've saved his life after all, but his life is also of little value to anyone, so perhaps the distinction is unnecessary. The grapes are shit; the soil is wrong, the supports are rotting, and nobody really knows how to ferment what crop they actually manage to glean from the sad vines. Thus, the wine is undrinkable. Daud accepts this setback (minor, he tells himself. They'll learn in time, and he has plenty of time these days) and doesn't waste energy on idle dreams of an illusory pastoral bliss. His vineyard barely deserves the name; a poorly managed wilderness might be more accurate, if he was willing to waste time on fruitless (hah) terminology, which he isn't. He's not a dreamer, and he accepts that he is also not a vintner. They cannot sell their sub-standard product; this is logical.

What baffles him is the undeniable fact that, despite their inability to produce a halfway decent vintage after nearly two years of toil, they are somehow _making money_.

It's true. He checked. 

And when he couldn't believe the total written neatly in their account book, when he doubted the numbers, and the sums, and questioned how a vineyard without wine could somehow still come out at the end of the month richer than before, he'd checked the money itself. Stored in seven different locations, because paranoia never did him any harm, he'd searched and counted, and concluded the impossible.

They sell no wine, but they really are making a profit. The thought defies any logic he can bring himself to accept, and he almost considers outside influence (The Outsider's influence) before shaking his head at entertaining such a delusion even for a second. The Outsider doesn't care about funding his retirement, not with Corvo still in Dunwall, probably still being his usual _fascinating_ self.

No, what they have here is not magic, but skill, and possibly a fair amount of deception. Daud will not tolerate being lied to, and in a different time he would have located the source and forced a confession, willing or not. Now, however, he finds that his preference is for tact over violence. He has done enough damage for a lifetime and more. He will question, politely, and push (gently), and nobody need end up held face first in a horse trough until they splutter answers in a half-drowned quaver.

His course of action decided, Daud checks the locks on the safe again, just in case, before climbing out of the hayloft where it has been artfully concealed. Once on the ground, he brushes himself off and affects a casual saunter that will send any Whaler who sees it running for cover. Old habits die hard. They can't know that he has non-violent intentions. He really doesn't mean to drown anyone in a horse trough or anywhere, and if his questions are answered in a satisfactory manner, then there'll be no need to.

Teague Martin is a sensible man. Daud has no doubt he'll see reason.

***

Things changed after Corvo spared him. There'd been no reason to do so, and plenty to simply cut his throat and leave him for the rats, and Daud had spent a traumatic few hours after the fight utterly unable to comprehend that he still lived. Numb all over, he'd fled the Whalers and their oppressive concern, finding an isolated rooftop to hide on. He'd stood by the edge and stared down, counting Weepers as he saw them, mentally numbering threats in a stultifying exercise in futility. What did it matter, if he saw threats? He was a dead man, he must be, because logically there could be no other conclusion to the facts as he'd interpreted them. Perhaps his body simply hadn't noticed yet.

Eventually though, his functioning lungs and steady heartbeat won out, and Daud was forced to accept that he was alive, whatever he'd expected. Oh, he'd asked to be spared, on his knees like someone begging forgiveness (he didn't deserve that, and nobody could give it to him anyway), but he wasn't really sure he'd wanted his life. Living meant he'd have to change, fulfil the bargain he'd made with himself: stop killing, remove himself from the picture, prove he could do something else. Old habits die hard though, and it would have been simpler not to have the choice.

It was a bit depressing, really. He found he'd set his heart on dying at the blade of a worthy opponent, for a valid and perfectly understandable reason, and a quick jump off the edge of the crumbling building just didn't match it for appeal. Growling in frustration, Daud came to the unpleasant conclusion that he'd much prefer to go out in style.  
"Damn." He hated theatrical men with a passion.

As sanity crept in and the gears of his mind began to turn once more, Daud perched on the building's edge and started to think. 

He was alive for a reason, he decided. Corvo had known he would not be resisted had he chosen to play executioner, and for all his generally pacifistic tendencies he'd killed before. Cowardice, or squeamishness, didn't come into it. So why?  
Another hour on the rooftop, and Daud considered and subsequently rejected other options. Why spare the man who had murdered his Empress, who some called his lover? 

Emily Kaldwin. The child, the Empress-to-be. It must be her, because what else did Corvo have to live for? His work was passionless, his movements driven by a deeper obligation than sadism, or the hunter's thrill. The only reasonable excuse for this behaviour was the girl, and therefore he must have spared Daud as insurance.

He stood abruptly, ignoring the scream of muscles held still for too long. It didn't matter, because he had purpose. Corvo didn't believe he would succeed in his rescue mission, or wasn't sure enough to wager Emily's life (wise of him, Daud wouldn't have sent any of his men to Kingsparrow Island alone), and he wanted a backup plan. If Jessamine's Protector couldn't save her daughter, then her assassin would.

It was all logical, once he'd considered it, so Daud made his way back to base as quickly as possible to prepare. They had maps of the Island somewhere, he was certain, and he'd need an escape route for himself and the child. She must not be harmed. They couldn't afford any cock-ups, not this time; it would be his last mission, and he was damned if it wouldn't go perfectly. He was owed that much.

Daud decided early on to let Corvo have his chance first. He'd earned the jubilation of success, the burn of once-muted hope as it flared into bright, acknowledged existence. Daud would watch, and wait, and maybe never make himself known at all, if everything went according to plan. It would be a pleasant rarity to observe Corvo at work, and if the other man died at least he'd clear some of the way, so escape would be simpler.

And that was how events conspired to place him on Kingsparrow Island with ten of his most trusted Whalers, an hour ahead of Corvo's arrival. Landing had been hellishly difficult, and concealing eleven grown men in the midst of guard patrols, Overseers, Tallboys and Outsider knew what else proved even worse. It was lucky he was planning on retiring, Daud had thought wryly. If he did this much longer, his heart would give out from the sheer stress of it all.

Whalers planted to his exacting specifications, Daud had gone against his own orders ("pick a quiet place and stay there, look, listen and do nothing, and if I catch anyone leaving their post I'll flay them alive), because he firmly believed that his men should do as he said, not as he did. He'd seen Treavor Pendleton entering an overly ornate glass-domed building, imperiously waving his guards away as he did so. Their new rulers were meeting to plan, Daud surmised, and it wasn't a conversation he intended to miss. A wise assassin kept abreast of schemes formed by men who ruled.

Havelock's speeches were stirring, Daud admitted. He could admire a man with the skill to rally a crowd, no matter what side that man spoke for. Their new Lord Regent had presence, could fill a room with his voice and his mass, and was probably very well trained in using the pistols at his belt. Certainly, Pendleton clung to every word of the victory speech, but the man had so little stomach of his own that it was only natural he'd attach himself to those who did. A leech, that one, and likely to soon outlive his usefulness, if Daud had read Havelock's character right. 

The third man was Martin. Though at that point Daud had known little of him outside of his name and reputation. A clever man, the gifted tactician, who filled the gap left by his near-absent morality with hollow words of worship that left him emptier still. A dangerous man. A thinking man. He'd watched Havelock pace and dictate with barely concealed mockery, his fists clenched on the table as though to keep them from reaching for a weapon. Whether he'd use the thing on his "allies" or himself was anyone's guess. Daud had warmed to him immediately. Cunning men were hard to find in this day and age; Hiram had believed himself to be one, but he'd only ever been fooling himself.

Understanding alone was not enough to make him act, of course. That part came a little later. After Havelock called for a glass pitcher of something amber and expensive-looking, proclaiming a toast to "the new Empire". He'd poured the glasses himself, making a grand show of the whole business, trusting that his magnetism would conceal his true intentions.

Daud was close enough to see the vial of clear liquid he'd tucked up in his sleeve, and the way he subtly doctored only two glasses. It was a thing of beauty, he admitted, that the Lord Regent's thick fingers could be so nimble at a task he couldn't be that practised in. This man preferred sword to poison, drama to subtlety; times must be desperate indeed.

Pendleton received a glass with something skirting the edges of sycophantism, his inbred nobility preventing outright subservience. 

Martin took his with resigned acceptance, and that was when Daud realised he was well aware of its contents. He'd seen, or known, and he would drink anyway, in the same way that Daud, defeated, had faced Corvo's blade without fear. The clever blue eyes were dull, uninterested; this was a man who knew he had lost, and was past the point of trying again.

It was a feeling Daud could understand, but no longer condone. If he had to live, then this man in his blue coat, calloused fingers and ears that stuck out too far should not receive the gift of death. It felt wrong, in the same way that the Empress' blood had felt wrong, only this time he wasn't going to stand around like a damn sheep while others died of his stupidity.

Freezing time for long enough to dispose of Martin's poisoned drink, replace it with an untainted one and drug the alcohol with half the contents of a sleep dart was an effort he didn't plan to repeat. He pushed the new glass between Martin's frozen fingers, his own hands shaking with the effort of maintaining the stillness that would save them both, hoping he'd left himself time to hide again. He doubted the hassle would be appreciated.

When Corvo arrived a little later, ghastly in his nightmare mask, he found two dead conspirators and one living Havelock. To this man, he did not grant mercy.  
"That's for Lydia and Wallace. They trusted you." Because to this man, betrayal of trust was truly the worst crime that could be committed.

Daud stayed still in his hiding place, not even making himself known when the Royal Protector and his soon-to-be Empress left hand in hand, the child clinging to her elder's side. It was good to see their shared joy, the simple pleasure of knowing the other was safe. It wasn't something he had any business intruding on.

Martin woke soon after they left. He lifted his head slowly, wincing as his neck protested, and found Daud sitting across the table from him, scarred face expressionless.  
"Rough day you've been having."  
Rolling his shoulders stiffly, Martin gave Daud a look too sharp for a man just waking from drugged sleep.  
"I have a nasty feeling it's about to get worse. You're Hiram Burrows' pet assassin, aren't you? Campbell's diary referred to you as Daud." 

And wasn't that a surprise. Daud hadn't expected to be recognised, let alone named; a lesser man might have been unnerved, but he kept his unease at bay.  
It was his first experience of Martin's constant yearning for knowledge, his accumulation of small, irrelevant facts for no other reason than he found them interesting. The need to _think_ , that he struggled to suppress because it meant he had an Errant Mind. Of course he did. It was one of the many things Daud liked about him.

"How unpleasant it gets depends entirely on your answers to my questions, High Overseer. There's no need to... make a mess." The implications couldn't be any clearer.  
Martin had just looked at him with detached eyes, before pushing his empty glass off the edge of the table with a finger. It shattered upon impact with the tiles, and Daud carefully contained the instinctive twitch that plagued him after sudden loud noises.  
"Just 'Martin' is acceptable; I have no claims to any title. Never did, really. And I'd have to be an idiot to believe you want to harm me, after you apparently just saved my life."

Daud allowed himself a small smile. "You're sure about that?"  
"It certainly wasn't Corvo." Martin's tone was wry. "And Campbell mentioned a few of your more... exotic abilities." His eyes darted to Daud's gloved left hand, showing discomfort for the first time in their unusual conversation. He forced his eyes back to Daud's. "Ask your questions then. None of this really matters any more, and I've no secrets left worth keeping." 

"Any plans for the future?" Martin frowned, pushed off-balance by the unexpected nature of the question.  
"Why do you-no, never mind. You're not going to tell me anyway." Daud's smile widened fractionally. A man who didn't waste words was a priceless treasure, as he'd tried telling his Whalers, to no visible effect. "Well, up to this point my plans had included 'drink this poison', followed very closely by 'die painfully', so I suppose you could say I'm open to suggestions."

If Daud hadn't been quite sure about offering before, he'd very quickly changed his mind. "I'm taking my merry band of incompetents off to retire in Serkonos. We could use a man who's good at planning." He didn't outright ask, of course. He never did. The best recruits, the only ones worth having, always heard his meaning anyway.

Martin had sighed, running a hand over his stubble as he considered. Neither spoke for quite some time, but it wasn't as though Daud had anything else planned for the day.  
Finally, Martin nodded. "When are we leaving?"  
Shrugging, as though the decision that had just been made before him was of no consequence whatsoever, Daud replied, "I haven't the faintest idea. Soon."

He'd arrived at Kingsparrow Island with ten men; he left with eleven. And when he boarded the vessel on which they'd hired passage to Serkonos, he was accompanied by most of the Whalers, and Teague Martin.

Daud never gave him the Outsider's gift. Martin never once asked for it.

***

Not everyone chose to follow him when he fled the cold confines of Dunwall's murk and stone. For some, it was home, and for others he was no longer Master. He'd relinquished the right to supremacy when he fell to Corvo's blade, and that was not an attitude Daud begrudged anyone. Truth be told, he'd expected to be abandoned on the spot; that so many of the Whalers came with him (most without a word, as though it was only to be expected, and there was nothing else to be said on the matter) is still a shock to him.

There were no hard feelings towards those who stayed. He didn't smile, and he didn't wish them luck. Nobody needed the kind of luck Daud's wishes would bring. He let them leave his band in silence, leashing small resentment as they laid claim to the Flooded District base, the masks he'd procured for them held in hand, commenting loudly on new approaches and the progress they'd make, as though he'd held them back by his mere existence.

Later, on the rolling ship with his band of lost and lonely men, Daud shut himself into his cabin and performed the rite that would strip the deserters of their marks. There'd be no pain; the giving burned like hot coals, but removing was without sensation, or so he'd observed on those few occasions when an unsatisfactory recruit left him no choice. Let the Outsider give them back, if he deemed anyone worth the trouble. Daud could only guess at their reactions to the loss of the only thing that made them special, but that alone was enough. 

The Whalers avoided him for days after that, whispering that he was in an odd mood, almost cheerful, perhaps the stress had rendered him unstable. That is, when most of them weren't busy hanging over the railings throwing up everything they'd eaten and simultaneously disgracing themselves and him. How he'd ever tolerated such ineptitude was anyone's guess; Daud himself was unaffected. 

Only Rinaldo made the mistake of asking him queasily if he knew any kind of solution to the seasickness.  
"You could all shoot yourselves. So much better for us all," Daud had snarled at him, the pleasant glow of revenge against the deserters wearing off almost instantly. Rinaldo just gave him a delighted smile, and hollered, "Oi, you lot, he's feeling better!" in a raw voice, and Daud almost shoved him over the railing out of sheer spite. But because he was retiring to be penitent and contemplate where he'd gone wrong in his life, he chose to go and find Martin instead.

The Whalers have Martin to thank for their survival of the journey. Had Daud been stuck on the ship with them alone, he might well have fallen prey to the part of him that suggested one final murderous rampage, for old times' sake. Martin, with his guilt and his self-disgust and his biting sense of humour, was always pleasant company, even if all their conversations began with,  
"Enough is enough. I'm going to butcher them all and throw their entrails to the sharks."

Martin is the one who kept Daud alive when the nightmares came visiting in the darkness of his narrow cabin, and his pistol started to look dangerously tempting; if the Overseer minded being woken at odd hours by a scarred shadow of a man who wanted to talk about _anything_ except the past, he never said. When they docked in Serkonos, more than a little disoriented, Martin memorised the maps and the tourist guides, and set about finding them transport inland while everyone else stood about in helpless confusion, blinded by bright colours and bustling crowds. He's the one who kept his head when the island's unfamiliar food caused illness among those Whalers born in Gristol, finding odd herbs and strange-smelling green things to cure the afflicted, shrugging off questions with a simple, "I read occasionally. You should all try it, I imagine it would be quite the novelty."

When they found their vineyard, Martin is the one who gently pushed an exhausted Daud aside and almost haggled the seller to tears. It's a shame he didn't know anything about wine-making at the time, or they might've been spared the traumatic experience of sampling the first vintage. Still, they'll get that right next year, or the year after; whenever Martin decides he's had enough of being surrounded by despondent Whalers bemoaning how utterly useless they all are, and actually starts researching what they're doing wrong. Daud has no doubt that when they finally do produce something drinkable, it'll be all down to Martin's guidance. Soon, hopefully. Devoting what's left of his life to dark memories and general brooding is one thing, but Daud's pride can only handle so much failure.

He struggles to clearly elucidate his feelings for Martin, even in the privacy of his own mind. Oh, there's the obvious, and it's not untrue, but he resents it all the same. To be afflicted so late in life is just unfair, as is the fact that it hasn't made him miserable. If there were any justice in the world, Daud would have spent the last few years in silent agony, eventually cumulating into rejection and despair, and a pathetic, lonely suicide somewhere among the grapevines. This would be a fitting end for a man like him. He should _not_ be able to say that he has enjoyed his time on their vineyard more than all his years in Dunwall combined, or that he seeks out Martin's company because the man makes him- well, happy. It's not right at all, as far as Daud can tell, because neither of them has done anything to deserve it.

He can't tell when he started to consider Martin the most attractive man he ever laid eyes on. It makes no sense. He rarely smiles, wears too much Overseer blue, and in the early mornings he rivals a plague victim for looking barely alive. Also, his ears stick out. It's distractingly endearing, and if Daud once hoped he'd grow accustomed to it, he's yet to see that hope validated. Surely by now boredom should have set in. Between the trials of their journey to Serkonos, seeking a place to call home (most of the Whalers had forgotten what that was), and tolerating the new rigours of country life, at some point they should have become sick of each other. There isn't a single Whaler that hasn't felt the rough edge of Daud's tongue at some point, so it stands to reason that he must treat Martin in the same way. 

He doesn't.

There are things he hates about the other man; this is not up for debate. Daud lists them to himself as he makes his way to the main building, where he will doubtless find Martin in their makeshift library; he devours new knowledge like their vines devour any water their dry roots can reach. This is not something Daud hates.

To begin, in order of importance, as per usual:  
Martin is an Overseer. 

For a variety of reasons, some more selfish than others, Daud finds it unacceptable. Worse, _illogical_. The first time he saw Martin, he recognised a kindred spirit; not a mirror, or reflection, but a shape he knew as fitting his own like... well, if he were one for innuendo he might say 'like the sheath of a sword', but he is not, so perhaps 'like the neighbouring piece of a puzzle' is more appropriate. This Overseer is ambitious to the point of recklessness, distant enough to accept necessary sacrifices, clever enough to see that life will do him no favours. That he needs the Strictures to function, that he _believes_ , is incomprehensible to Daud. Strictures keep him chained, when he should have left his chains in Dunwall, as Daud did. They bind his thoughts and place limits on his intellect, which is wasteful to the point of being ludicrous. 

The Seven Strictures are the reason he has kept his distance these two years past, when every instinct he possesses screams for him to shove Martin up against the nearest wall and kiss him until neither of them can breathe.

Daud is a restrained man, to be sure, but he is still a man, and he is fast approaching the end of his tether.

Martin is exactly where Daud knew he would be, sprawled in one of the ridiculously plush chairs that some of his Whalers brought back in a cart from a trip to Karnaca, back in the early days when rules were more lax because he was too tired to enforce them. They made muttered claims about a noble family gone utterly broke and selling their furniture, which would have been so much more plausible had they been able to meet his eyes as they spoke. Daud had glared, and might have sought some form of retribution, but Martin (damn the man) likes the chairs, and so his hands are tied. 

At least he's not reading anything Abbey-related. From what Daud can see, it's a book on the history of Serkonos' small pirate minority. Someone's indulging, it seems. Martin looks up as Daud enters, his eyes a mix of defiance and embarrassment. Daud folds his arms and leans nonchalantly in the doorway, smug in having the upper hand without needing to say a word. So often their conversations feel like sparring matches; there's no real intent to cause harm, but keeping up with Martin does require conscious effort. For everything he says, there are two others that he thinks, but doesn't vocalise. The man is exhausting.

Martin breaks the not quite comfortable silence. "I was once a highwayman, before I joined the Abbey. Times were desperate. Perhaps I should have left all that behind me, but sometimes it's nice to..." he sighs, and tosses the book aside, ignoring Daud's surprise. Of all the occupations this man could have chosen... and it's not a detail he's ever mentioned before. There's something to be said for this, the trust they've built up over the last few years, enough to allow such secrets to come out.

"I'm not going to judge you," Daud tells him unnecessarily. They both know he'll never be in a position to judge anyone ever again. Not out loud, anyway."Do your Seven Strictures make things easier at all? I can't imagine they would, but I've never been a _pious_ man."  
Martin just scrubs a hand over his face tiredly. They've had this conversation before.  
"I don't have the energy for theological debate today, Daud. Was there something you needed me for?" There's something wrong there, in the shadows under his eyes, and the lack of his usual spirit. Is the exhaustion physical, or something else? Impossible to tell. He'd speak up if he was showing plague symptoms, but if there was some other sickness that he couldn't transmit, they might not find out until he died in his bed. It's not a pleasant scene to contemplate.

Martin's question sinks in. "I've been looking over the account books-" and there it is, the nearly invisible wince he was looking for. "There's something strange going on, and seeing as you're in charge of the numbers, I thought I'd ask you first."  
Martin sits up a little straighter. "Are you accusing me of something? I'm not a thief, or rather not anymore, so if you're implying what it sounds like..." The defence is half-hearted, and pointless anyway. They both know what an examination of the account books would have revealed.  
"We're making money." Daud puts on his most terrifying voice, the one that's reduced Whalers to tears in the past. Whalers, plural. "This vineyard sells no wine, and yet we're somehow making money, and not in trivial sums. _I want answers_."   
"We have other sources of income," Martin tries to sound reasonable; he certainly doesn't seem appropriately terrified, which is galling. "Thomas raises hens-"  
"Martin, tell me the truth."  
"-and Jenkins has a fine singing voice, he earns plenty of tips from performing in the pubs."  
" _Martin_." 

There's a long moment where they do nothing but stare at each other. It's moments like these in which futures are made, wars declared, Empires made to crumble like so many long-abandoned buildings. If Daud were an imaginative man, he'd say the air hums with tension, but that would be a lie; there's no humming. He can hear his own breath, perhaps he can hear Martin's, and it would be so very easy to cross the room in a few long strides and pin him to the ridiculous leather chair.

He doesn't move, and Martin looks away first.  
"You know I visit the city every week," he says quietly, staring down at his lap.  
"I do." 

Minimising contact with urban areas had been Daud's intention, when they first found and bought the derelict old farmstead with its withered vines and hilly surroundings. They were an hour out of the city by horseback and he'd felt reasonably safe, but not enough to chance some noble immigrant from Dunwall recognising his face because he'd once killed their aunt. As a rule, he tried to avoid Karnaca. The Whalers were not as paranoid, and for once Martin had sided with them over Daud, citing the need for supplies, tools, and new books (the latter to keep him from going madder than a rabid rat, he'd claimed with a wry smile). 

So once a week a group makes the trip, returning late in the evening wild with tales of gourmet foods, _decent_ wine (bastards), exotic whores. Daud had scowled and warned about the dangers of being recognised, for a while. And as he tired of speaking where no-one else would listen, he stopped coming out to meet them when they arrived. He can make no such trips, enjoy no such experiences; his face is much too distinctive. It's a punishment he knows he deserves. 

Martin's never mentioned what he does on these trips, he thinks. Oh, he brings back his share of luxuries, and always some form of gift for Daud (he's said it's unnecessary many times only to be thoroughly ignored, and Martin does have excellent taste in spirits), but he never elaborates on his activities in the city. Respecting his privacy, and perhaps accepting that he does not really wish to know, Daud has never asked. It's time that changed.  
"What have you done, Martin? What are you _doing_?"  
"Nothing to endanger you." He looks up sharply, challenging Daud to claim otherwise. "I swear on my life, on what's left of my soul, I'd never knowingly endanger you.'

Daud believes him. It doesn't change things, however, because he came to this room determined to find answers, and his affection for Martin has not weakened his iron will. There is a horse trough right outside the building, full of greenish water and things he'd rather not name, and if he must wrestle Martin out to it, he will do so.  
"Tell me."  
When Martin glances aside, it takes him a second to understand. Then he sees what drew his eye: the book on piracy, abandoned on the table at his side.  
 _He was once a highwayman._  
"Outsider's eyes, Martin, are you robbing merchant caravans? Nobles? Rich travellers?" Daud is both horrified and amused, and perhaps a little intrigued. The image of Martin masked and on horseback, pointing a pistol at some fat spice merchant, is something that will keep him awake in the night for a while, he thinks. 

Martin frowns at him. "By 'you', are you referring to me in the singular? Because that wouldn't be entirely accurate."  
This time it's more amusement than horror, though he pushes the image of Martin the Highwayman aside with no small amount of regret. "The implications of this are... a little worrying. Am I to understand that you've taken my gang of eminently skilled assassins, and turned them into a band of common robbers?"  
"It brings money in and keeps them entertained. I'm not sure what you have to complain about," Martin hisses at him, his cheeks flushing a dull, embarrassed red.

"Doesn't that violate the Third? Or whichever passage it is that prohibits stealing?" It's a slip, admitting to being so familiar with the Strictures (as though he didn't study them, memorise their contents in an effort to better understand this strange man in front of him), but he's honestly curious to hear how Martin justifies this.  
"There's a...loophole I've been exploiting. _I_ don't take part in the actual robbery, I just-"  
"Plan every detail of the attack, up to and including disguises, I trust. They'd better not be using their Whaler masks."  
Martin shoots him an offended look. "Do I _look_ simple to you? We bought some generic theatre masks, they're everywhere in Karnaca. Nobles even wear them to parties. There's never any chance of identification, our targets are well-scouted before we so much as approach them, and there are no deaths outside of the occasional hired guard. There are no mistakes. I make _no mistakes_."

Of course he doesn't. This man with his brilliant mind, who has apparently spent almost two years   
hiding criminal activities under Daud's very nose, and all in the name of keeping them financially stable. It's a toss-up of whether Daud is going to punch him or kiss him-  
except, of course, the latter is forbidden.

Daud has never wanted a man as much as he does now. It's this, and the knowledge that they are united in this, that Martin _wants_ , but refuses them both, that sours his amusement, turns fondness to fury in the space of a heartbeat. He moves from his position in the doorway with a suddenness that makes Martin jump, pacing the length of the room with short, tense steps. When he speaks, it's harsh as sandpaper, and unforgiving.

"I understand a man who simulates belief to feed his own ambition. You wanted power, the position of High Overseer suited you well. This, I can understand." He turns abruptly, frustration colouring his words as he struggles to keep from grabbing Martin and shaking him. "But the last two years have resulted in a grand total of no mutinies, so I conclude that your ambition is spent, and you don't feel any need to supplant me. Though you could, if you wanted," he snarls the last part; how many times has he wished someone would come along and _take_ what he has fought for, and ceased to value? "You wouldn't need any clever plans, I'd step aside if that pleased you."  
"It does not." Martin is tense, ramrod straight against the leather seat. If the sudden change in topic has thrown him off-balance, he hides it well. "I'm here to hide from my mistakes, just as you are. We're the same kind of coward, you and I."

There's honesty in his voice, anger in his eyes. He's serious.   
"Then you shouldn't have any need of your _Outsider-damned Strictures_." Martin's eyes widen a fraction; he knows about the gift, of course, there's no way he could have avoided knowing, but Daud's made it a point to avoid bringing that...thing into their conversations. He's lost control, because he doesn't understand. "You're far too intelligent to actually believe that idiocy, and it can't be giving you any peace. So why trouble yourself with it?"  
Martin closes his eyes, rubbing a hand over his stubble again. It's a tell-tale sign of stress, Daud could have told him that, and he should learn to control it or risk someone exploiting his rare moments of weakness.

"How can you possibly know what does and doesn't help? Do you assume that because the Strictures were of no use to _you_ , they're equally worthless for me?" His blue eyes are sharp now, cutting in their perception. It doesn't change how tired he looks.  
"They don't look like they're helping. You're seeking _loopholes_ , that's not the act of a true believer." Forcing reason into his voice, Daud approaches slowly, his hands lifted to show he doesn't mean to attack. As gestures go it's deceptive, he's never needed weapons to do harm, but the symbolism is what matters here. "And some two years ago, when you meant to let the short-lived Lord Regent Havelock poison you without protest, they didn't seem to be helping _then_ either." 

He's struck gold, it seems. Martin flinches at the memory. "I suppose they weren't," he mutters. His eyes are distant, fixed on something Daud has no business intruding on. He waits. He's very, very good at waiting.

The book on pirates is still sitting on the table at Martin's side. Picking it up, Daud flicks through its weatherbeaten pages, smirking slightly at the illustrations. Caricatures, an artist's overly-imaginative impression: no realistic battle scenes, few truly seaworthy vessels, plenty of scantily clad wenches.   
"I thought this was meant to be historical," he remarks wryly. At his words, Martin rouses himself from whatever existential crisis he'd been submerged in.   
"It's a lot easier to stomach with a glass of whiskey, I'll admit."   
"Rum might be more appropriate." About halfway through the book, Daud finds the kraken he was looking for. Its eyes are wide with alien menace, and the unrealistic ships are shredded by the beast's monochrome fury. There's no hope for the book after that kind of nonsense.

He shows Martin the picture, and the other man snorts with laughter. "I'm too sober for this. Shame your wine resembles sewer water."  
If he'd heard that from a Whaler, Daud would probably have considered himself honour-bound to shove the offending fool into a barrel of 'sewer water' and hammer down the lid. There isn't actually any use for the stuff outside of murder, but a man has his pride. As ever, Martin is the exception to a rule he'd rather not enforce in his retirement.  
"If we're calling the wine what it is, then I propose that honesty be extended to your Strictures. They're drivel." He judges the mood has lifted enough for an almost playful swipe. Martin doesn't seem to take offense, this time.  
"They're not mine, precisely. I never wrote them." 

"Indulge me, then." Tossing the ridiculous book aside, Daud leans against the table and looks Martin in the eyes. "If you had to choose a single Stricture to.." he searches for an appropriately awful fate to subject the offending passage to.  
"Use as fertilizer for your vines?" Martin's lips twitch at the look Daud gives him. "Interesting question." He stands, and paces over to the window. "I wonder, what do you _want_ my answer to be?"

Daud curses silently. He's been so subtle, but it appears Martin reads him too well.   
"That wasn't the question." Abandoning his comfortable slouch against the table, he joins Martin at the window. Outside, the dying evening light paints his vines in bronze and gold, lovelier by far than anything Sokolov ever managed. Whalers crouch in one of the rows, apparently trying to teach the wolfhounds they smuggled from Dunwall to shake hands. Thomas' chickens are loose again, which is against instructions Daud clearly remembers giving, but at this point he can't bring himself to care. Tomorrow he'll probably start wondering how small he'd have to mince the Whaler, before his own birds will eat him. Are chickens omnivorous? No matter. 

You can't tell this small, isolated haven is anything but perfect in the long Serkonos evenings. It's moments like this that he understands why it's good to still be alive.

At his side, Martin shifts restlessly, no doubt carefully considering the puzzle before him. He'll factor in the answer that's most desired, the answer that's most practical, the answers that will cause offense, and maybe even the truth. It's quite the paradox he's been given. If Daud has read him correctly (and he's had nearly two years to do so, there can be no mistake; his affections are reciprocated) then the truth is a dangerous answer, because if Martin admits to disliking the Sixth, then Daud _will_ see him break it entirely before dawn. Preferably multiple times.

And if Martin claims something else, then he is a liar, and has broken the Second. If he refuses to answer, he is a coward, and his own pride will not allow it. There's no way out of this that Daud can see, and he takes considerable pleasure in the hopeless realisation forming on the Overseer's face.   
"Having trouble?" It's difficult to keep the mockery out of his voice, but retirement in Serkonos has done nothing to lessen his discipline. "It's a simple question, and you're a thinker. I wouldn't have thought you'd encounter difficulties-"  
"Shut up." His fists clenched, Martin stares out over the vines and wrestles with Strictures he follows out of habit, and pure human desire. Watching him is plenty entertaining, but Daud tears himself away from frustrated blue eyes for a moment to consider other important matters. The desk, for one. It looks acceptably solid, and he's been wondering what Martin would look like bent over it for a while now. Yes, the desk will do nicely.

It's a little ridiculous that they've taken this long to reach a point of crisis. Between the quiet evenings spent exclusively in each other's company, the way Daud restrains his caustic criticisms around the other man, and Martin refrains from preaching, sly inside jokes they've developed and subtle smiles they don't quite manage to hide... most of the Whalers are convinced they're fucking. They're much too afraid (respectful, Daud prefers to think) to vocalise this conviction, but it's there. 

"Why tonight?"  
"Hm?" He turns back to Martin, sees thoughtfulness instead of anger. It's a pleasant surprise. He'd honestly expected to spend a while longer being very convincing before Martin conceded anything close to defeat.  
"Why are you asking me this tonight? You've had time, plenty of it, and there's nothing special that I can recall about tonight. No...festivals or anything." He's musing, brow furrowed as he looks for some kind of logic in the timing. "I don't recall having done anything particularly alluring recently."  
Daud chokes back a laugh. He's been doing that with worrying frequency in recent months, and always around Martin. It's either a sign of long-deserved madness, or he's in this so deep there's no hope for either of them.   
"Aside from the revelation that you enjoy prancing around in mask while encouraging my Whalers to commit larceny? I won't deny the idea has a certain allure to it."

"I never prance," Martin says. "Though I wonder about Thomas occasionally; he spends more time than necessary going through the...pockets of noblemen. Mostly not-so-young noblemen, which is an interesting choice, but I'll make no criticisms."  
"I always found the simplest solution was telling them I didn't want to know, _ever_."   
"Very wise."  
There's nothing comfortable about the silence that follows. It consists entirely of them eyeing each other warily, while outside the sun sinks lower, and the Whalers have no more success training their hounds than they have making wine. They've stood through plenty of these silences before, and it's just one more thing that Daud hates about Martin. He can't abide how _incompetent_ moments like this leave him feeling. If he were any good at this kind of thing, he could charm his way out, but charm has always eluded him. _Hiram_ would cope better in this situation, and that bites like nothing else.

"Oh, for _fuck's_ sake," Martin snarls suddenly, and lunges at him.

Registering the motion as an attack, Daud acts on instinct to defend himself, bringing his hands up to seize Martin tightly around the wrists. That alone would have been enough, had Martin actually been trying to do him harm, but it seems he has miscalculated rather badly. It's not an attack or, rather, it's not one he objects to.

Martin's mouth tastes faintly of the figs they'd eaten for dessert, and more of whiskey, and there are so many kinds available in Karnaca that it could have been, but Daud would know Old Dunwall anywhere. He tilts his head, parting lips with a careful tongue, swallowing Martin's hissed gasp along with the tang of liquor. It's definitely Old Dunwall, which means homesickness, memories of the Abbey, musings on old friends. He _knows_ this man, and now he knows what his loneliness tastes like.

"You're not thinking of going back." Daud breaks the kiss long enough to make himself coherent; it's not a question, because the option can't be there. He likes Serkonos, hates Gristol like nowhere else, and if Martin goes back to Dunwall then he'll have to follow and they'll both end up miserable.  
"I wonder how it is you can read my unspoken thoughts, sometimes," Martin replies, breathless grin and bright eyes fixed on Daud. "But then I realise that if you could, you would know I always planned to stay. Do you _mind_ ," He struggles to free his wrists, and Daud, who minds about many things he hasn't allowed himself to express, holds him, uses the leverage to shove Martin up against the windowsill.

"So you do like it here?" He releases his grip, resigned to the fact that he'll be apologising for bruises tomorrow, and grabs Martin's chin to look him in the eye. "You actually _want_ to be-"  
 _with me_ , he thinks, but it's far, far more than he's allowed himself to give in a long time, so he settles for, "here."  
Back pressed against the windowsill, Martin pushes his fingers under Daud's coat, hauling him close by his shirt. "Only for the sake of your merry band of incompetents." He licks over Daud's jawline, just under his ear, soothing any insult his words might have caused. "Who, by the way, can see everything we're doing, because _I'm standing in front of a window_."

So he is. Well, the opportunity is too good to pass up. Regretting the gloves he neglected to remove, Daud seizes a handful of dark hair, jerks Martin's head back to suck vivid bruises on the skin of his neck.   
"Hn-" he tightens his fingers, holding the other man in place. On the back of his hand, the Outsider's mark is tingling; he wonders if Martin can feel its call through the leather, if he'll feel it later, when they press skin to skin and learn each other in entirely new ways.

Martin's fingers are working between them, easing the red coat off his shoulders undoing the buttons on Daud's shirt with the expertise of someone long accustomed to dressing blindly in darkness.  
"If I hear so much as a _word_ about this at breakfast, it's your fault, and there will be consequences." For all his words, Martin doesn't stop what he's doing, pushing fabric aside in quick, urgent movements, then running his palms up Daud's bare shoulders. He'll find scars, and plenty of them, Daud knows, but if scars sickened him they wouldn't be here. He won't be expecting perfection; there isn't any to find. There is however a fairly impressive knife collection, and Martin has the decency, or perhaps self-preservation, to wait for Daud's nod before removing any.

"Anyone bothers you about it, I'll line them up behind the stables tomorrow and shoot them." It's a serious threat because this must go smoothly, and if it does not there may never be another chance, once Martin realises that he's gone against those vows he so values. He'll weigh what he has gained against what he has surrendered, and if the total is weighted in favour of the wrong side he may even change his mind about not leaving. And that is unacceptable. Tugging his head back a little further, Daud finds the outline of Martin's collarbone through his shirt, and _bites_. Forget the bruises. Let them come. He wants Martin to spend days feeling this, remembering the hoarse groan he couldn't quite mask, and the way he'd pressed his hips flush against Daud's.

There's a deeper meaning behind this need to leave a mark on Martin's skin. It's outside of simply claiming him, the way the richer classes express possession of their spouses with costly rings for all to see. No, this is more akin to the way he's marked his Whalers, branding them with the Outsider's claim, and his own. They are _his_ , as so few things have ever been in his lifetime. So few people. He gives the Whalers their marks, and can take them away with equal ease, so they are both dependent and inferior. Above all, they are tied to him. 

All but Martin, who has never asked to share his powers. He stays because he wants to, but Daud will mark him anyway. These bruises will fade, but perhaps they'll be replaced with others, given and received in heated moments where time seems to hang still around them. He finds a new spot and bites again, encouraged by Martin's hands tight on his shoulder and the back of his neck, the way his breaths come quick and shallow. Daud eases a thigh between Martin's, giving them both something to press against, some small friction that won't be enough, but will do for now. 

He gives up on savaging Martin's collarbone when it becomes clear that he'd have to fight through too many layers of clothing to reach actual skin. Daud abandoned excess garments a while ago for of the brightly coloured, loose-fitting shirts favoured in Serkonos (all the more suitable for hiding his collection of lethally sharp knives), but Martin still dresses as though there might be an inspection at any moment. Sometimes it's amusing. Now, however, it's frustrating enough that Daud considers just cutting the fabric away.

Martin solves the conundrum by tugging his head back up, bringing their mouths back into alignment. There's desperation there, in the way he bites at Daud's lips, the way his hands stroke over Daud's chest once more, exploring every inch of damaged skin he can reach. This is the touch of a man who's spent far too long imagining, denying himself until his words wore paper thin and he tore through them in frustration. He ruts against Daud's thigh, the shaky rhythm drawing soft, half-swallowed groans from his mouth.

Suddenly, it's not enough. Stepping away, Daud ignores the almost painful loss of friction, and silences Martin's protest by sinking to his knees on the wooden floor.  
"Are you-" There's disbelief in Martin's voice, and a gratifying lack of objection.   
"Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

Martin hisses as Daud gets to work on the buttons of his trousers, approaching them with an easy efficiency that hides his own lack of experience. He never explicitly banned liaisons among the Whalers; they're men, and loyalty is one thing, but demanding chastity is quite another. He had tried to set an example through his own actions, however, and while it made for lonely nights he liked to think the built up frustration also made them a lot more efficient in the line of fire. Still, it's been a ridiculously long time since he was last in this situation, and he was never all that experienced.

It helps that Martin isn't in a position to be critical anyway. It's probably been equally long for him, which means enthusiasm will more than make up for an absence of skill. Braced against the windowsill, his fingers digging tight into the rotting wood, Martin's face is a mess of desire and uncertainty; it seems there's a part of him that still believes this is just another forbidden dream.

"Afraid you'll wake up?" The buttons are undone, but he doesn't move to push fabric aside, though he aches to touch, to savour, and to learn.   
Patience, self-control; these are his personal Strictures. They have plenty of time.

"Afraid you plan to disappear and leave me like this, as some kind of lesson about the shortcomings of Stricture." Martin's laugh is shaky, and he twitches as Daud rests a hand on his upper thigh. "It seems like something you _would_ do."

He's right, and it's a shame Daud didn't try something like that sooner, though whether he could have mustered the restraint necessary to pull it off is something he isn't sure of. Perhaps he'll try it at some later time, if only to see Martin squirm; success would be as enjoyable as failure.  
"I could go," he says slowly, stroking gloved fingers over Martin's thigh. "There'd be no resentment between us, if this isn't what you want." It's a brazen lie, of course. He's kneeling on the wooden floor of their makeshift library, achingly hard, his shirt still hanging loose about his shoulders, and he isn't going _anywhere_.

Martin seems to agree. One of his hands is suddenly fisted in Daud's hair, its grasp just short of painful, holding him in place.  
"If this isn't... you can't be serious? If you had any idea how many times I've thought about this, how many times I've-" he stops, swallowing hard, stunned by his own admission.

And there is the main reason why involving himself with an Overseer was his most stupid idea yet, Daud thinks. None of them know what they want, and when they do know they're too busy being pious to do anything about it. If he were to get up and leave now, it would be nothing more than what Martin deserves for his stubbornness.

Still. Daud is a cruel man when he needs to be, but that seems to cross the line into immorality.  
He cups Martin's length through the fabric of his trousers, unable to resist a final jibe.  
"Tell me, Martin. Does it count as _Wanton Flesh_ if you touch yourself, and think of me?" He doesn't wait for an answer, doesn't really expect one, and would have been a little annoyed if Martin had actually been capable of coherency.

Leaning back against the windowsill, Martin spreads his legs a little wider, the only concession he makes when the rest of him is tense, wound up tighter than a clock. Leaving him mostly dressed was a good idea, though Daud will freely admit that the view would have been more enjoyable had the man been totally unclothed. But that will come later, when the backdrop is cool white sheets in place of the Serkonos sunset. For now, he settles for the pale skin of Martin's lower stomach, wiry black hairs making for a sharp contrast. And there's more to this than seeing; the sharp, early taste of salt, and hot, tight flesh between his parted lips, are novelties he works to savour.

He rests his hands in the hollows of Martin's hipbones, anchoring him in place, because this isn't...difficult, exactly, but that only hold true as long as Daud remains in control. He sets an easy pace, watching to see what prompts the most approval. 

Martin's fingers tug on his hair, the grip too strong for comfort, the ache just strong enough for pleasure. He hums in approval, stops when Martin gives a strangled gasp and jerks forward in response. His eyes are closed tight, the soft gasps he cuts off with every breath gaining in volume as he loses the will to silence them. He makes for a truly lovely sight, between the dark, ruffled hair and flushed cheeks, (shame, or pleasure? Perhaps a mixture of both). Daud finds himself mustering a conscious effort not to take a hand away from Martin's twitching thigh, reach down and fumble his own trousers open. His leather gloves might not provide the most ideal sensation, but it would be simple enough to have Martin remove them, with his teeth if necessary.

It's that thought that drives him forward, the rush of desire that instinct says he must share; it's easy enough to angle his head, take Martin's cock as deep as he can, the reflexive gag momentarily forgotten. His own mild discomfort is worth tolerating for the chance to witness Martin shudder, cursing, easily loud enough that enough that anyone still outside will have heard.

Daud has never understood the embarrassment with which people generally regard liaisons like theirs. He's held back these past few years out of respect, not shame. He feels no need to hide what they're doing, now that it's finally permitted. Still, for Martin's sake he hopes the Whalers have found a modicum of respect and propriety in some previously undiscovered location, and aren't standing outside watching. Though if he knows them at all, they probably are. They've most likely summoned those Whalers who were elsewhere on the farmstead, to share in the evening's entertainment.

Jenkins will be providing commentary. It is inevitable.

Martin's choked groan, and the way the fingers in his hair tighten uncomfortably, brings his attention back to where it's clearly wanted. 

"Daud-" Martin tips his head back, long past silencing his own broken cry, one hand white-knuckled on the windowsill, and the other loosening, giving Daud the option of pulling away, too late. Not that he'd meant to, anyway. It's worth the bitterness on his tongue to see Martin's astonishment, as though it's actually surprising that he wouldn't mind. And he doesn't. Eighteen years spent living on what Gristol calls 'food' has left him immune to almost anything. 

From somewhere outside the window comes the sound of wildly enthusiastic applause.

Martin draws a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes closed. Blindly, he pushes Daud's hair back from his face with fingers that just barely shake.  
"They're all out there watching, aren't they?" There's a touch of humour in his voice, in the way his lips twitch at his own words. When he opens his eyes, Daud sees only resignation. Not the regret or humiliation he was half expecting. 

He bites the pale skin of Martin's thigh, just light enough that it may or may not leave a mark; they'll have to wait and see.  
"I have grenades with me," he offers. "If you really want them gone."

"I think that would be best," Martin agrees seriously, the tone belying his shaky breaths, the way his thighs still twitch subtly under Daud's fingers. "If you expect them to still be terrified of you tomorrow, you probably won't want them watching what I'm going to do to you now."  
"No?" He inclines his head, allows Martin to stroke curiously over the scar where an errant sword stroke should have taken his eye out, and didn't.

"Absolutely not." Martin takes his hand away, beckons. "Lend me one of those grenades, and I'll refrain from commenting on what I think of a man who brings explosives to a seduction."  
Daud gives him one with a bare minimum of protest. "Can you use it?"  
Martin doesn't dignify that with a response, removing the pin with an ease that suggests there's more to his shady past than just highway robbery. He counts two seconds exactly, in the same mild tone he uses when Reynolds gets that bit too rude to him, or Daud himself is too cruel to the younger Whalers; the tone that promises suffering for whoever has been stupid enough to irritate him beyond the point of pious forgiveness.

He throws like someone who is intimately familiar with the use of projectiles to blow people apart. It's a purposeful, efficient gesture, and should _not_ send a shock of heat straight to Daud's groin, except that it does, and it's wonderful. He could happily watch a lot more of Martin being murderous, which rather defeats the purpose of a quiet, guilt-stricken retirement. Damn. They'd been doing so well, too.

Outside, there are screams. One enterprising Whaler yells something about 'protecting the vines', of all things, so perhaps they'll have a few graves to dig tomorrow. No chance it's Jenkins, unfortunately; that man could survive a kraken attack and come out of it as irreverent as ever.

There's silence after the detonation, so either they all got out, or the wounded are too badly mutilated to scream. Daud stands slowly, brushing his knees off as casually as possible.  
"If you've quite finished preserving my modesty..." he keeps his voice wry, still unsure of how Martin will react now his mind is clearer, and cold reason overcomes physical need.  
The grin Martin gives him is wild, _hungry_. It says everything for him, and so much more, but it's still good to hear him actually say it.  
"I'm satisfied your reputation is safe, yes." The grin widens. "Now take your clothes off."

There's something there beneath the confidence, some small uncertainty that says it might be alright to push back and see what happens. Daud meets his eyes, holds his still gloved hands up, and makes no move to obey.  
"Make me."

He does.

It's very quiet when they go down to breakfast together the next day, having mutually concluded that they don't really have a secret to keep anymore, and thus there is no point to slinking down separately. Morning meals are eaten together, seated at long benches, officially as a way to maintain their twisted group dynamic, though Jenkins has been known to suggest that Daud just wants to deny them a chance to sleep in. He has a point; Daud isn't quite as incompetent in the mornings as Martin, but he does tend to find that dealing with a sleepy, irritable rabble is not the best way to start the day. It's customary for the Whalers to give him a wide berth at these meals, and someone (probably Eli, though he's very subtle about it) makes sure there's always a steaming mug of Serkonan coffee waiting for him.

This morning is a little different. The first thing Daud does is count the number of heads in the room. Most of the Whalers are present, and nobody appears overly distraught, so it appears they all survived their surprise explosives drill. This is pleasing; had the results been otherwise, he would have been left with no choice but to devise a rigorous training regime to correct the fault, and frankly he has better things to do. He is, after all, retired.

There are two mugs of coffee waiting where he usually sits, placed opposite each other at the end of a bench. Eli freezes in the act of stepping away from them.  
"Uh- Good morning?" The young man's voice shakes slightly. And while Daud is accustomed to being treated with a certain amount of abject terror, it appears that for once he is not the subject of the worried looks and careful distancing that his Whalers react with. This time, all eyes are on Martin.

He blinks, fighting back a yawn. "Is that mine?" There's perplexity in his voice; normally Daud is the only one to receive this kind of treatment.  
"Yes. Sorry about last night. It was all Jenkins' fault, really." Eli disappears without warning, and it's a mark of how long Martin has been with them, that he doesn't jump. He does however slump onto the bench and proceed to almost inhale the coffee.

Daud joins him with a little more dignity, raising an eyebrow at the extra mug.  
"Interesting. It appears all anyone wanting to win their respect is required to do is-"  
" _Please_ shut up." Martin absently tugs his collar higher, as though he actually thinks it might help.

The noise level in the room gradually rises, as usual, and if there are a few too many sidelong glances, inadequately muffled jokes and quiet chuckles, Daud steadfastly ignores them. Some of the jests regarding Overseers are actually amusing, though he probably won't be thanked for pointing that out.

"I had a reputation once," Martin mutters into his porridge.  
"So you did." Daud carefully spoons honey into his own bowl, and for once doesn't bother hiding a smile. It's a good day to be in a fruitless vineyard in Serkonos, and he's damned if he won't enjoy it. Guilt and wallowing aren't urgent. He can postpone them until tomorrow.

A week later, Martin finds him wandering among the vines, grabs him by the shoulders, and says,  
"We've all been idiots, and it's no wonder the wine doesn't work. But _I know how to fix it_."  
Daud stares blankly for a second, before dragging him in by his collar and kissing him senseless, and neither of them has the decency to feel guilty about it.

The wine is much, much better the next year. Give it a little longer, and it might even become something to be proud of. It probably won't stop the occasional highway robberies that Martin still indulges in, but they were always more about entertainment than financial benefit, whatever he says. 

Daud still catches Martin mouthing Strictures occasionally, though it's starting to look more like habit than fervency, and he often stops midway and scowls to himself. 

The Sixth is always conspicuously absent.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Terroir](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7722955) by [Kess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kess/pseuds/Kess)




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